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Perfected quills will blot their holiness
in neatened lines all scribed religiously.
The ivory towers, pure in loneliness
As broken islands over depths of sea.
The hills encapsulated halfway down
As much removed from ways of common man.
The learned assume their lordship over town,
no good for bearing bards, Shakespearean.
Yet Chuck Bukowski choose to break the rule
with wine and women, smoke and lecher’s song.
He burned bad lessons – alcohol the fuel
that fired his words with pen and forging tongue.
This drunken sage knew how to fill the bill
with living-hell inspired like Will — with swill!

[Over at dVerse, a band of roving sonneteers are amassing to share their wares are market? Bring your own minstrel]

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